So, yes, it was a mouse that had been squeaking. A tiny, sweet little thing. Its miniscule feet were attached to the evil sticky paper and it was still alive. Oh God, it was still alive, struggling. S couldn't detach it from the cruel trap and had to administer a blow after, well... use your imagination... I felt sick and cried. I didn't watch any of this, obviously. It happened in the garden. My lingering images are of the little creature watching me work yesterday and of it stuck on that fucking evil bastard paper. I was going to remove it this morning but I bloody well forgot.
I've removed the other strip of sticky murder paper that was thankfully untouched, and thrown away the rest that Mr Patel had left. Off to Homebase tomorrow to buy some humane traps and we'll get a Pole in to block up the holes (yet another disaster by Mr Moron-Troll). Grrrrr.
Thinking about the mouse has really upset me. Are women meant to cry when rogue mice are killed/ removed? Who cares...
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